It’s early July when you step out of a gas station in the middle of nowhere. you saw a man leaning against a 1963 Ford Galaxie, a cigarette in his mouth, and a gas pump on the side. He had black hair, a thick stubble, aged skin, worked hands, and a bulky figure. He was at least twice your age. But you didn’t seem to mind.

You hoped toward the man, smiling up at him in a friendly manner. He tilted his head a you, smiling back.

“Can I help you, sweetheart?” He asked with a deep Texan accent.